King, Ship, and Sword

by Dewey Lambdin

  “Aye, but . . . that was only temporary, while Caroline and I . . . ,” Lewrie replied, then paused, reminded again that there was no Caroline, and never would be. “If I do gain a new command,” he slowly said, “it might be best did she board with ’em. I’d pay for her tutor and music teacher and all that, but . . . that’s where she is now. Charlotte has gotten it into her head that . . .”

  He sat up with his elbows on his knees, the cool glass of tea in both hands, squirming in shame to announce that evil rumour.

  “There’s some say it was my fault Caroline was killed,” he told Sir Hugo, growing angry. “Damn ’em! Don’t know what Millicent thinks, she’s sweet and kind, most of the time, but Governour . . . he’s always disapproved of my . . . well, ye know what he disapproved of. At their place so much, Charlotte thinks it was my fault, too! She was always Caroline’s daughter, first and last, and with me gone so much, and . . . those letters comin’ and makin’ Caroline so bitter, the girl was dead-set against me and took Caroline as Gospel. Even after I came home last winter, Charlotte’s been missish and stand-off-ish with me, and I don’t know what t’do about it. The boys, I can understand, but her?

  “I leave her in Governour’s clutches, I might as well give her up,” Lewrie said with a bitter sigh. “Don’t suppose you’d take her on in London, would you? Like you did with Sophie?”

  “Not a chance in Hell,” Sir Hugo baldly stated. “Young ladies I can deal with . . . not with head-strong little girls. Besides . . .”

  “She might cramp your doin’s?” Lewrie said with a mirthless chuckle.

  “There is that,” Sir Hugo cheerfully admitted. “Without a wife in yer house, without a step-mother t’rear her up . . . I don’t suppose ye’d consider marryin’ again.”

  “Not a chance in Hell,” Lewrie assured his father. “Besides . . . how’d it look, with the first year of mournin’ not half over? And who could I trust t’do right by her . . . and me?”

  “Just a thought,” Sir Hugo said, waving one hand idly to shoo his suggestion away. “Now, do ye let Governour and Millicent have her through an active commission, that’s what . . . three years or more out at sea, halfway round the world, before ye have t’come home to re-fit?”

  “About that, aye,” Lewrie sombrely agreed. “A dockyard re-fit in England, but still held active, it might be five or six years.”

  “And all that time, yer house sittin’ empty and idle? Left in the hands of an estate agent ye don’t know whether t’trust?” Sir Hugo speculated. “Up-keep not done . . . rats and mice everywhere? Rent paid t’Phineas Chiswick, with little return? That’s rum.”

  “What are you gettin’ at?” Lewrie asked suddenly, thinking that that shoe was about to be dropped, and he wouldn’t much care for it.

  “Ye haven’t spoken with Phineas Chiswick or with Burgess?” his father asked, brows up as if surprised that Lewrie was still in the dark.

  “As little as possible to the first, and not since the funeral to the second,” Lewrie answered. “Why?”

  “Ye really haven’t,” Sir Hugo realised, sitting up straighter and seeming to squirm, his lined face turning pinker. “Damn! Would’ve thought ye’d heard.”

  “Heard bloody what?” Lewrie demanded.

  “Phineas and Governour think that Burgess should have a country estate of his own, son,” Sir Hugo began. “Near his kinfolk, d’ye see? Close t’London and Horse Guards, ’stead of way up at High Wycombe with his wife’s parents. Handier for the Trenchers, t’boot, do they wish a week or two in the country, callin’ on their daughter and son-in-law. And . . . ,” Sir Hugo said with a sly, worldly look, “I do recall that the Trenchers are simply un-Godly rich, and ye know how Phineas Chiswick slavers like a jowly hound if he hears two guineas rub t’gether. What better sort of neighbours could he wish?”

  “Phineas can’t turf me out,” Lewrie snapped, “not as long as I stay current in my rents, and there’s no chance o’ me fallin’ behind! I’ve prize-money in the bank, interest from the Funds, and, thank God, we’ve had two years o’ good corn crops, and the price o’ wool’s still high, despite the peace, so he can’t. It’s a long-term lease, dammit!”

  “I vow I never thought t’hear ye speak o’ crops and wool prices like ye knew what they were,” his father said with a snicker. “Oh, he could buy you out, any time he felt like it, son. There’s Burgess . . . come home from India a ‘chicken nabob’ with more’n fifty thousand pounds. . . . There’s the Trenchers, who might’ve made a round million since the war began in Ninety-Three. Considerin’ all the improvements ye’ve made over the years, Phineas Chiswick might have to pay ye twelve or fifteen hundred pounds. But he could turn round and offer it to Burgess as a lease, and make that back before he goes toes up.

  “Phineas don’t have anyone t’inherit, mind ye,” Sir Hugo sagely pointed out. “His first two wives died without issue, so he’s no sons t’leave it to, and he’s the miserly sort who’d take all his property t’Hell with him, could he figure out how. Or keep it together after he’s gone. It’s good odds it’ll all go to Governour, since he’s the elder of his nephews . . . and Governour’s been doin’ the old bastard’s will since he got here, schemin’ t’be his sole heir. Eatin’ his shit and runnin’ his errands and smilin’ all the while, haw haw!”

  “Even so, I don’t see Governour keepin’ Burgess as a tenant,” Lewrie said, frowning with concentration, “thinkin’ t’prosper off his own brother in rents.”

  “Rent for now, then will the farm to Burgess when Phineas dies . . .’til then, Governour’d be responsible for up-keep and working the crops and herds . . . same as he does for his own lands, and Phineas’s,” Sir Hugo explained. “Then both brothers end up freeholders, and able t’vote in the borough. Hunt, fish, trap game . . . both end up country gentry. It ain’t exactly the Christian thing t’do, turfin’ ye out so soon after Caroline’s passin’, but . . . what can ye expect from such a purse-proud old miser?

  “And there’s what ye leave the children t’consider,” Sir Hugo added after a long, contemplative sip of tea, and a fond gaze over his own vista and acres. “Should the French manage t’kill ye before ye inherit Dun Roman, that is. Another twelve or fifteen hundred pounds in the bank, or the Three Percents, would help them along their ways.”

  “Why go to all that trouble, when Phineas could just sell it to the Trenchers, and Burgess could be landed right away?” Lewrie fumed, getting to his feet to stamp down the length of the gallery, shouting back over his shoulder before he turned to clomp angrily back to his father. “No matter how land-proud Phineas Chiswick is, he sold to you! First time in living memory, hereabouts, that. Like to’ve made local folk go into fits, it did! Thought he’d gone mad as a hatter!”

  “He’d had a bad investment or two, crop prices were down, and he needed the money perishin’ bad,” Sir Hugo explained with a shrug. “Not his best land, you’ll note. Too hilly to plow, too wooded, and thinner soil. Don’t make tuppence from workin’ this land, son, just barely break even. It’s ownin’ this much land, the house and my view is what matters t’me. Be the same for Burgess, long as he’s in the Army. A pleasant country seat, that’s all.”

  “. . . that the Trenchers could buy, then give to Burgess as a weddin’ present, and the deal’s done, straightaway,” Lewrie fumed, rocking on the balls of his feet and feeling like he wanted to hit something or kick furniture. Remembering how Phineas Chiswick had turfed out that sheeper tenant who’d had the place before he and Caroline had returned from the Bahamas in ’89, and had needed a place to live . . . close to the bosom of her family, ha!

  “Bugger Phineas Chiswick!” Lewrie growled. “Bugger Governour, and bugger Burgess, too, if he hasn’t the ‘nutmegs’ t’speak with me about it! Just damn my eyes!”

  “Bugger ’em all, aye,” his father inexplicably hooted, laughing heartily. “No matter how they wish it, though, me son, they can’t run ye outta the shire. Hark ye . . .

  “Shift yer traps an’ f
urnishin’s up here to Dun Roman, and this will be yer new country seat,” Sir Hugo schemed with a wry little grin. “They might think ye’ll end up in London, at the Madeira Club, but yer children can consider this their new home whilst yer at sea, and ye’ll be able t’come home and be up their noses ’til the Last Trump. When I go, you’re heir t’twice as many acres as yer old place, and, do I not squander all the loot I brought back from India, you and yours’ll sit in deep clover, haw haw! They’ll never be rid o’ ye!”

  Lewrie thought that over hard, sitting back down in his chair and taking a long sip of the cool tea, considering how much “dear Uncle Phineas” might have to shell out to get him out. The house they’d run up had cost eight hundred pounds in 1789, and was surely worth more now. The old wattle-and-daub barn had been torn down before it collapsed or the rats ate it, and a new stone-and-wood barn had replaced it. The brick-and-stone stables and coach-house, the silage tower, had gotten added the next year. There were good horses for the team, and saddle horses; he’d keep those at his father’s, but the rest of the livestock could go with the land. With no more rents owing at each Quarterly Assizes, and more money in the bank . . . !

  Lewrie sat back in his chair and began to grin.

  “Ye see?” Sir Hugo cajoled.

  “Onliest problem, though, is that the children won’t have their home any longer,” Lewrie mused. “Where they were born and grew up. Oh, the boys . . . they love comin’ up here t’your place, so I don’t imagine it’d pain them too sore . . . perhaps Sewallis more than Hugh. It will be Charlotte who’ll take it worse. Hard as she took losin’ her mother, t’lose our old house, too, well . . . she’d never forgive me for that, on top of all that Governour’s put in her head.”

  “Son . . . who’s t’say Charlotte’d forgive ye, anyway?” Sir Hugo pointed out with a sad shake of his head and a reassuring tap upon Lewrie’s knee.

  “Well . . . there’s truth t’that,” Lewrie had to agree after a long moment to think that over. “There is that.”

  CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR

  All worries about being turfed out of his home became moot just two days later, when Lewrie went down to the Olde Ploughman after his daily morning ride for a rum-laced coffee, and found his old Coxswain, Will Cony, waving to him and wiping his hands on his blue publican’s apron. “Mail coach brought ya somethin’, Cap’m Lewrie!” Will declared, coming to meet him near the doors. “Letter from Admiralty, th’ most important! Want a drop o’ somethin’ warmin’ whilst ya read it, sir? ’Tis a raw sorta day.”

  “Aye, Will, I’d admire rummed coffee,” Lewrie replied, quickly taking his letters and ripping the official wax seal to read it before even taking a seat at a table. Idlers in the public house’s common room turned in their chairs at that announcement, worried that a resumption of the war might be coming, though none of the newspapers had yet declared it.

  They offered him a ship . . . another frigate of the Fifth Rate, a 38-gunner with 18-pounder main-battery guns; HMS Reliant, now lying in-ordinary at Portsmouth!

  He sat down with a smile on his face, an expression that local people had not seen since he’d come home from Paris, closed his eyes and slowly nodded, as if in a brief prayer of thanks, before hungrily reading his letter again, just to make sure that it was real, that the offer of active commission was true, and not a fantasy.

  “Is it war, beggin’ yer pardon, sir?” Cony asked in a whisper as he returned with his coffee.

  “It doesn’t say, Will, but . . . ,” Lewrie informed him an a mutter of his own, “it may very well be, if they’re re-commissioning me.”

  “There’ll be a press, then. Soon,” Will Cony speculated. “A hot press. Recruiters comin’ t’town, from the Army, but what sorta lad’d go for a soldier when he kin be a sea-dog, by God! Lotta young lads hereabouts, Cap’m Lewrie . . . barely scrapin’ by as day labourers, or down t’the tannery’r brick-works, since the Enclosure Acts took their folks’ wee plots o’ land, and the commons. I’d wager I could round up a couple dozen likely lads fer your new ship! What’s her name, sir?”

  “Reliant,” Lewrie told him, “a Fifth Rate Thirty-Eight.”

  “A big frigate, aye!” Will Cony exclaimed for one and all in the common rooms. “HMS Reliant, the Cap’m’s got, huzzah! Damme, did I have two feet t’day, I’d go back t’sea quicker’n ya kin say ‘knife’!”

  “Ye really think ye could?” Lewrie posed, knowing how hard it would be to recruit willing hands in a hard press, and thinking that a dozen or so volunteers from Anglesgreen, who’d known him and Caroline for years, might take the Joining Bounty as a way to get their revenge on the French for the murder of a local favourite.

  “Even wif two feet, Will Cony, ye’ve too much belly t’shin up a mast these days!” a patron hooted.

  “An’ th’ Navy won’t let ye sling a keg o’ yer best ale aboard!” cried another.

  “Cony takes th’ King’s Shillin’, who’d make our ale, I ask ye?” shouted a third. “We got t’keep ’im here. Tie him up ’fore he gits away!”

  Lewrie opened a second letter, this one from his old superior in the Adriatic in ’96, and a senior officer in the close blockade of the Gironde coast three years before: Captain Thomas Charlton. He was being given a commission, a two-decker Third Rate 74 (he wrote) and, did Lewrie still have need for a Midshipman’s berth for his son Hugh, then Charlton would be honoured to accept him. HMS Pegasus was lying in-ordinary at Portsmouth (happy circumstance!) so make haste, etc.

  “And my son Hugh has a ship, too,” Lewrie told Cony.

  “Runs in the fam’ly, th’ sea, it do, sir!” Cony beamed proudly.

  “I’ll be all night, writin’ all the people I have to,” Lewrie said, hurrying through his coffee, “and get letters off on tomorrow’s mail coach. That’s a temptin’ idea, Will, our local lads. If I could get ’em past the Impress Service into Portsmouth without half of ’em being stolen.”

  “An’ robbed o’ their Joinin’ Bounty, aye,” Will Cony agreed with a growl.

  “I’m off, and thankee!” Lewrie said, springing to depart.

  He rode at a fast lope to Dun Roman to inform his father, spending perhaps an hour arranging for Sir Hugo to serve as his representative, should Phineas Chiswick press the matter after he departed. The next stop was home, his news a delight to Liam Desmond and Pat Furfy, who, no matter how pleasant their lives were on the farm, found that a chance to serve at sea again suited them right down to their toes.

  Then it was finger-cramp, ink smudges, and hot sealing wax on his fingers all through the day and early evening, with only a few very brief breaks for dinner, supper, and trips to the “necessary.” First came his reply to Admiralty, the next to Capt. Charlton, then to his solicitor, Coutts’ Bank, Sewallis and Hugh, urging them to come down to London and lodge at the Madeira Club ’til he arrived, and informing Hugh that his fondest wish would soon be realised. After all those, he had to write all the other naval officers from whom he’d asked a place for the boy, telling him that Charlton would take him.

  “Note for ya, sir,” Mr. Gower intruded into the library office.

  “Hmm?” Lewrie perked up. “This late? From whom, d’ye know?”

  “Governour Chiswick, I reckon, sir,” Gower replied.

  Lewrie tore it open and read what Governour’s wife, Millicent, had penned; Charlotte wished to sup with them and sleep over with her girl cousin. They would fetch her home by mid-morning tomorrow.

  “Awf’lly damned high-handed of ’em,” Lewrie muttered, thinking that a request sent much earlier would have been more polite, not this “oh, by the by . . .” note, as if they were her parents, not him.

  Christ, she’s been over there all day? Lewrie realised; I’ve eat dinner and supper and didn’t even note she wasn’t here? Well, maybe they are! Or will have t’be.

  Charlotte couldn’t stay at Dun Roman, not if his father was not present; nor could she reside with him in London, as the old rogue had made very clear. Somebody ha
d to take her on! And who better than “family,” her only kin . . . disagreeable as most of them were?

  Have t’ ride over there and see if they’ll board her, permanent, he told himself; arrange for all her clothes, bed-chamber furniture and toys t’go with her. Have familiar things round her . . . poor tyke.

  Or, he reckoned for a long minute or two, he could do the right thing by his children, turn down Reliant, thus ending his active Royal Navy career. He could go on half-pay the rest of his life, live here in Angles-green, as farm agent at Dun Roman, perhaps, with an occasional jaunt up to London and the Madeira Club when country living got too boresome.

  “No,” he whispered, sadly shaking his head in the negative.

  “Sir?” asked Gower, who was still hovering.

  “Thinkin’ out loud, no matter, Mister Gower,” he told him.

  “Right ho, then, Cap’m Lewrie,” Gower said cheerfully, doing a sketchy bow before slouching off to the kitchens.

  Lewrie heated the sealing wax and daubed it on the flap of his final letter, then snuffed the candle heater and leaned back, with an ache in the small of his back from sitting hunched forward too long. He rose and arched himself to work out the kink, fists in the small of his back, and decided that he’d done a fair piece of work and was now well deserving of a healthy measure of whisky. The sun was not only far below the yardarm by then, it was two hours past sunset! Desmond and a stable boy were going round closing the outside shutters for the night. As he poured himself half a glass of bourbon, they closed the shutters on the French doors to the back-garden, leaving his office lit only by the candelabra on his desk and the glow from the fireplace.

  He paused after his first sip, looking round slowly at all his books and possessions, his furniture, his weapons, and the hanger he’d recovered from Napoleon, now hung over the mantel, where it had lodged years before.